Less
by Wigstand
Summary: Post Fable 2 - They wanted a hero who was noble, fair and wonderful, who would sacrifice their life for them without any hesitation. She didn't even have a name. DISCONTINUED
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** Another Fable 2 fanfiction to enter the fray. This is set AFTER the main quest of the game, so beware of spoilers.

This will be quite a long story; the chapters will seem short - that way, I can update more often. I'm still undecided on a pairing (if there will be any at all) - Garth, Reaver, or an OC? Let me know of your thoughts!

**Disclaimer:** Fable 2 belongs to it's respectful owners. The song 'Los', of which this story was inspired by, belongs of course to the brilliant band 'Rammstein'. I only own my take on Sparrow, any original characters and my theories of Necromancy in Albion.

CHAPTER ONE

She had no name.

Perhaps she did, long ago. Before the cold, the dark, the hunger, in those murky years of her early childhood. Perhaps Rose had called her by it, before she had found her younger sister fussing over that tiny bird that hopped so merrily on the ledge looking out at Castle Fairfax. Perhaps, perhaps she would one day remember it. Before Sparrow, before Lionheart.

It hadn't mattered then; life was hard enough without added complications. Scrabbling for breadcrumbs on the pavement, standing underneath the rain for a wash – there had been no need for names. You didn't need a name to find food. You didn't need a name to survive winter's frost. Rose didn't need a name when she was shot and bled to death on the ground. Sparrow didn't need a name when she died for the first time.

Sparrow was to be remembered for many things in the future - the purification of the wellspring in the Temple of Light, the conquering of the dreaded Crucible, and most notably the defeat of Lucien Fairfax and the ruthless soldiers of the Tattered Spire. Over the years, the details grew murky, stretched and warped by whispers of her less noble pursuits, her selfish goals. Of how she let thousands of innocents remain dead, even when she had the means of bringing them back. Of how she used one of the darkest aspects of magic known to man. Of how she was, in the end, human.

She was shameless. She was hopeless.

She was nameless.

-0-

Her story begins a month after the death of Lucien Fairfax.

It begins with Sam the bandit staring into the face of a snarling dog.

He was pressed against one of the seats of the carriage, squashed between worn leather and a vicious animal. Dark brown eyes, eyes that would normally look kind and warm, were contorted in canine rage, splitting the bullet-shaped scar above the creature's eyebrow. Sharp teeth were bared scant inches from his nose, and he could feel slobber dribble down his chin and neck.

He tried to reach for his trusty sword – one that had seen years of cutting off grandmother's heads, but the mutt had knocked it to the floor when he had entered the carriage. With the finesse of a sailor, Sam swore until his face was blue, feeling a lethal jaw drift closer every passing second. The animal was much stronger than he looked, and smart too. He had waited until Sam was preoccupied with the _other_ occupant of the carriage before he leapt.

Desperate, Sam shouted out for help from his comrades, who had taken it upon themselves to deal with the driver of the coach, his valuables and his horses. But his words were drowned out by blood-curdling screams and the sound of gunfire, until they dwindled into whimpers and rasping gasps. What in Albion was _happening_ out there? The commotion outside had become eerily quiet. Sam felt his stomach churn, his bowels turn to water.

Footsteps approached the carriage and the door swung open.

"S'alright Dog, you can get off him now."

The dog yelped happily, scrambling off his chest. For a fraction of a second, Sam was paralysed as air rushed through his lungs and blood pumped around his body.

And then he darted for his wayward sword, screaming.

A boot slammed down on his wrist, snapping the bone. Blinded by pain, he felt a hand grab his hair and force his head back. He blinked tears from his eyes, looking up into the barrel of a pistol, which was aimed at his forehead. There was a laugh, short and dry and completely mirthless.

"Looks like you're the lucky one today, love."

-0-

Sam the bandit was tied to a chair.

He had been gagged, blindfolded and dragged out of the carriage by the scruff of his neck. Desperately, he had tried to struggle, but the cold pressure of a gun to his temple ceased all his efforts. They had only walked a short time before he felt creaky wooden floorboards underneath his feet; roughly, he was pushed onto a chair with his hands tied around the back.

With no warning, the blindfold and gag were ripped from his face, and he squinted in the dying sunlight. When his vision had cleared, he willed himself to look at his captor, trembling.

A fair, graceful knight, with rippling muscles and a sickeningly lovely aura. At least, that was what Sam had been expecting. Or, perhaps, a wrathful monster, clouded in red smoke and dressed in obsidian armour, dragging mutilated corpses behind him.

Instead, it was a woman. Tall and dark haired, she couldn't have been older than thirty. Glowing blue lines patterned her skin, disappearing underneath her coat. A sword hung from a belt on her waist. Anxiously, Sam moved his eyes to her face, and started when he met her eyes. They were a bright viridian green, and were so intense and sharp that he had to look away. She looked like someone who not only _could_ kill him, but would have no hesitation in doing so.

And by her feet stood that damn dog.

"P-please don't kill me!" He gasped out, "Please! Oh God, please don't! M-my wife and kids-"

"Would probably be better off without you from the looks of it." His captor drawled, hooking her pistol into her belt. She turned that unearthly gaze to him, "Still, I just want to ask you a few things-"

"Anything you want! Just please!"

The woman smiled, or was it a smirk? Either way, Sam felt his heart stop with fright. She looked half-deranged. With long, languid steps, she leaned over him, placing her hands over his own, her face mere centimetres from his. He tried to draw back, but only managed to bang his head on the back of his seat. She was cold, numbingly cold. His eyes flickered to her forehead. There was a round scar, seemingly from a gunshot wound. _No one could've survived that._

"You bandits know everything that goes on in Brightwood, right?" A terrified nod, "And I bet you all sit around and brag 'bout the people you've attacked, yeah?"

Sam couldn't speak. He squeaked a 'yes'.

"So," she coiled her hand around his injured wrist, squeezing the bruised flesh, "have there been any _strange _people wandering around Brightwood lately?"

"W-what do you mean?"

"A man. Tall, thin. Wears a hood. He should be with a young girl. Sound familiar?" Her tone betrayed her frustration. Her patience was running out. Sam swallowed hard, meekly shaking his head. The grip around his wrist tightened. He gasped in pain.

"N-no one! There's been no one l-like that! Just travellers and traders, the usual lot. A l-lot less than usual, actually, 'cos of the h-heroes! _Please don't kill me!_"

The woman stared at him for a long moment, all traces of that previous amusement gone. Sam gazed back imploringly, trying to find a trace of kindness or empathy within those strange eyes. As the silence stretched on, she leaned back, the wood creaking underneath her feet. The pistol hung at her side, seemingly forgotten. His heart flickered with hope. He wasn't... going to die? He wasn't going to die!

"Thank you!" Tears of joy sprung in his eyes, "_Thank yo-_"

His words were cut off as a bullet shattered his jaw. Blood splattered the chair.

Sparrow didn't even spare a glance at the dead bandit as she let the door of the abandoned barn swing shut. Just another scumbag. Just another nameless man who had tried to kill her. She slipped her pistol back into it's holster.

Dog bounded up to her, licking her hand as she stroked him behind the ears, light fingers massaging the animal's furry crown. "Thank you for earlier." she gently brushed the scar that marred his eyebrow, similar to the one on her forehead. Both were presents from Lucien weeks before. Both times they should have died. But fate had something else in store for Sparrow, and the hero couldn't bear to live without her precious Dog.

Hammer had a few things to say about that, just before they had departed. The warrior monk couldn't understand why she had given up the opportunity to resurrect the thousands that had perished in the making of the Tattered Spire. It seemed she shared that opinion with the rest of Albion. Despite the fact that Sparrow had saved them all from utter destruction, they still scorned her whenever she ventured back to civilisation. Which wasn't very often. Everyone wanted, _expected_ her to be noble and selfless.

_Idiots._

It was a shame that Sparrow and Hammer had parted on bad terms. Despite the larger woman's incessant chattering and her qualms with Sparrow's speciality in necromancy, she had remained a good friend over the years. Perhaps one day in the future, they could meet again and set things right.

She looked up above the treetops to the sky, which was dyed a vibrant magenta. "Time to make camp, don't you think?"

Garth had understood her decision; perhaps because he was older and wiser. The mage had always seemed to see right through her, where no one else would bother looking. He had left for Samarkand with a promise to meet her again in the future.

Reaver, of course, couldn't care less if it didn't affect him. It was a good job the slimy git had left with Garth, otherwise Sparrow would've put a bullet through his head. He had attempted to betray her _twice_, nearly turned her into a decrepit old woman and had stolen the revenge she had yearned for twenty years. _He better be able to duck quick the next time _I_ see him._

A campfire now burned in a small alcove within the forest. Sighing heavily, she dropped her saddlebags to the floor and settled beside the flames, Dog rushing for her lap. She slipped off her belt and scabbard, lying the sheathed weapon next to her stretched body. Chewing on a piece of bread and handing Dog a treat, she dug into the pocket of her coat with one hand, drawing out a letter.

It was an incredible lack of foresight on her part when she only expected Dog to come back to life.

_Dear Sparrow,_ it read, _I woke up today in such a peculiar place. It's like a great big forest, with lots and lots of trees that go on forever..._

"Apparently not any in Albion."

_I was scared at first because I couldn't find you, but there's someone here who says he knows us, says he knows our family. He told me his name, but I keep forgetting it. Weird. I think he's a king or something. He's very thin and wears a hood and looks scary, but he's nice and I feel safe with him here. I hope you're okay Little Sparrow. Somehow I know that it's all going to be alright, and we'll be together again one day. He promised me._

"Who promised you?" The letter crinkled under her vice-like grip, "_Who is he?"_

_Love,  
Rose_

"Rose." She whispered. Rose. The same Rose who knew her name. The same Rose who had perished all those years ago.

Rose, who's dying scream still haunted her little sister's dreams even now.

Ever since she had received the letter, Sparrow had done nothing, _thought_ of nothing else besides finding her sister. She had spent weeks crawling through the forests of Albion, trying to find any trace. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing. What if Rose was in danger? What if she was held hostage by this mysterious man? The possibilities were endless, and it only served to fuel Sparrow's determination. This was a precious chance to be reunited with her only family, to put right the events of that terrible night twenty years ago.

Plagued by those thoughts, Sparrow stood and extinguished the flame, before settling down beside Dog and prepared for another restless night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes**: I think this wins the award for most frustrating chapter _ever_. I've been staring at it for weeks and I'm still not happy with it - fortunately though, I've gotten over my mental block, though it didn't help make the chappie any better quality. *grumbles* Still, updates are going to appear more frequently after this!

And a big THANK YOU to those who reviewed the first chapter! You're comments are the only reason why I pushed on with this, so I am completely and utterly grateful to you all. Thank you very much again! (And especially the comments about the love choice, hah, I'd want my dog back anyday!)

Lastly, following the advice of Serpent King, I've decided to have **no pairing** for this story - I have it all planned out now, and any heavy romance would interfere with the upcoming plot. I'm sorry if this has disappointed anyone!

CHAPTER TWO

It was only a week later when she truly started noticing the changes in the wood around her. Subtle hints, such as the muted cry of the birds and the state of the path she walked soon caved way to obvious signs; the foliage grew darker, wilder, seemingly determined to trip her feet as she walked. The early winter's sun seemed to prefer to hide behind the clouds, or shine on any spot besides the wood. At night, the full moon hung in plain few, emitting an eerie glow to the cry of nocturnal animals.

Sparrow grimaced. They were nearing Westcliff.

But she spotted signs of civilisation before that - upturned buckets, crushed bottles and piles of rotting hay were just a few examples of the waste that littered the sides of the road (could it be called that? It seemed to be mostly made out of mud).

Still, there were plenty of small villages that dotted Albion's countryside that she hadn't even heard of. Sparrow hoped they had a trader. Her supplies bag was running pitifully low, and she didn't fancy having to ration out her food until she reached Westcliff, not when she had a moderately heavy bag of coins in her pocket that could be satiated elsewhere.

After a few hours, however, she noticed something wasn't right.

It was cold.

That in itself wasn't unusual for this area. The coast loomed only a few yards away, and the chilly sea wind often battered the cliff tops. No, this was a different _type_ of cold – one that felt slimy, sickly and anything but fresh. Oddly enticing, drawing her in. Other humans would've felt it at a lesser extent, but Sparrow was a Hero and, most importantly, a necromancer. This was familiar.

This was death.

She swore, pulling her sword from her sheath. The silver blade seemed even more pronounced in the shine of the moonlight. It wasn't a particularly astounding sword – duller than most people expected a Heroes' weapon to be. It was nicked and notched and had seen far more battles than Sparrow cared to remember. But it was reliable.

A brush against her leg made her glance down. Dog was sticking close to her, ears flat against his head. His tail quivered. His chestnut eyes were stuck on something in the distance. She followed his gaze.

"_Shit._"

There was no mistaking the sinister smear of crimson across the path. It seemed to have approached from the opposite direction, before veering off through the forest. With a sinking stomach, Sparrow noticed that the wild bushes had been hacked through, and the grass trampled on again and again. It was slick with blood.

A deep rumble echoed from Dog's throat as they crept through the feral undergrowth. This was a foolish, _foolish_ idea. The sense of death was growing stronger, almost _beckoning_ her to follow it. The temperature dropped with each step. Her breath appeared in white puffs of smoke. There was a growing smell, putrid and festering, _rotting_.

But if there were enemies nearby, she couldn't risk an ambush on the path. She would bring the fight to them.

If they also had her sister, then that was an added bonus. Her grip on the sword tightened.

She didn't imagine what was waiting for her. She was usually wrong.

The path of crushed bracken and grass ended a few metres before her, dipping down out of site. Like a hunter stalking it's prey, she edged towards the ridge of the hill, peering down with her sword resting against her shoulder.

Dog whined. Sparrow gagged.

The hill was, in fact, a giant pit, dug crudely into the soil. No, it wasn't a _pit_, she realised, it was a _grave_.

There were bodies. Men, women and children of all ages, still clothed in pauper's attire, heaped on one another. Blank, glassy eyes stared up at the sky, some still had terror petrified onto their faces. Their limbs were crumpled, entangled, as if they were dolls, tossed by a careless child. Dirt crusted their almost translucent flesh. Crusted blood stained each corpse.

The stench was incredible. Dog whined and edged back towards the forest, tail between his legs. Sparrow choked, but she flailed for her senses, clamouring to her feet, cursing all the time. _You've seen worse. Remember the Tattered Spire? Remember when you first stepped off the boat, how you felt the death there? How men were starved and tortured and mutilated and you felt it __**everyday**__?_

She clenched her jaw, straining her ears.

Nothing. The hero waited for the padding of oncoming footsteps, the menacing cackle of an attacker. But there was only silence. Dog, who had often acted as a warning bell for her, merely whimpered and shrunk back. Whoever, or whatever had butchered these people had been long gone.

She lowered her sword, but made a note not to sheathe it, an invaluable lesson experience had drilled into her. Gingerly, she padded around the pit, examining the bodies with a careful eye.

Once upon a time, she would've frantically rushed down towards the corpses. That was before instinct was ruled over by logical thought. Sparrow knew the dangers of rotting flesh from her time on the streets, in the Spire, and of course as a Necromancer.

Sparrow frowned when she noticed their throats had been slit. Most citizens of modern day Albion carried guns around with them – it was safer to shoot at a distance, well away from harm, and it was less personal. More professional. It seemed that each villager had been executed up close.

One woman was lying on her back, hand uncurled, showing her palm. Another slit had sliced the skin there, and a quick look showed that each villager had the same wound.

There was a disgusting squelch underneath her feet.

Blood. It was still wet, fresh, and it coated the grass like a second skin. Unlike the grotesque trail from before, it was an almost perfect circle of dark crimson.

_This wasn't bandits, _she thought,_ they just kill and loot. This was systematic. This was precise._ Ignoring the glazed eyes that peered aimlessly in her direction, Sparrow did a quick body count. _Thirty_.

So it wasn't a low profile slaughter, either. Someone would notice thirty people missing, and bandits and hobbes wouldn't risk a full-scale attack close to a village with a substantial amount of guards. As Sparrow searched through the blood-mottled grass, her unease grew steadily within her, as did the frown on her face.

This was almost _sacrificial,_ but the Temple of Shadows had been destroyed many years ago, by her very own hand.

_Who then_?

Her thoughts flashed to the crumpled letter in her pocket. Rose...? She had mentioned her companion as intimidating... was she in danger somehow? Taken captive by whoever had instrumented this massacre?

It hurt Sparrow's head tremendously. Viridian eyes closed for a moment, her gloved hands reaching up to massage her temples. Dog, still whimpering, gave a miserable yowl from the tree line.

Sparrow was completely and utterly clueless.

-0-

It was hard to tell the difference between night and day in Westcliff – so used to the angry plume of grey clouds blocking any shred of sunlight from the sky, the residents continued on their daily business until they simply grew tired. The huge renovations to the coastal town had done nothing to improve the weather, at least. Angry drops of rain splashed the roads.

Thomas the Guard stood vigilantly at his post by the gates. He was a very young man, fresh out of his teens, and, like any new soldier, was an idyllist. Spine snapped straight, shoulders square apart, he seemed like a statue as he stared through narrow eyes down the path.

Ever since the overhaul of the village, bandit attacks were scarce, and Balverines were dealt with the swift hand of justice before they could even take one step into the establishment. Those with bites were given the only medicine available – a strike to the neck.

Still, he couldn't help the shiver crawl through his skin. There was something awfully _cold_ today, some growing sense of dread that he couldn't fathom to explain. He kept one hand on the hilt of his sword, his dinner had been barely touched.

"See anythin'?" A fellow guard called out. Thomas shook his head, damp sticking his uniform to his skin. Despite his eagerness to serve the guard of Westcliff, Thomas hadn't actually seen any real action apart from drunken brawls and the occasional escaped animal from the Crucible.

Seconds drew on like hours. The villagers became more subdued, more melancholy, and Thomas licked his moist lips. He didn't like this, didn't like it _at all_.

Something moved in the distance. Shambling, stumbling, the shape of a man was making his way down towards the entrance.

His first thought was to draw his sword, to impale whatever dastardly manifestation was lumbering towards him and his precious village. Glancing upwards to another guard who stood watch in a nearby tower, Thomas shared a nod and slowly pulled out his weapons.

"Halt!" He was rather proud of how authoritative he sounded, "Halt! Identify yourself now!"

The figure paused, but only for a moment, before breaking into another shambling pace. Narrowing his eyes, and gesturing for the other guard to cock his gun, Thomas wandered forth steadily, his sword held at chest level.

This was his chance, he thought. He had always idolised great heroes, like the Scarlet Robe and Maddog and Lionheart. Slaying this foul beast could even earn him a promotion!

The mist cleared before his eyes, and as he drew closer, he stopped in his tracks, eyes wide.

A filthy, dishevelled man stared back at him, streaked with mud and gore. His clothes were ripped, revealing a beaten, bruised chest. Wobbling beneath a broken nose, his lips were puffy and cracked, dark against his sickly pallid skin. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he fell to his knees, grasping the hem of Thomas' shirt, sobbing and gasping and choking on his own breath.

"H-hnn..." The man keeled over, gargling. Thomas strained his ears to make sense of the words.

"H..hero!" His face arched back, mouth agape and sputtering. "t-they're go... going to ki-kill us all! _H-heroes!"_

_Hero._


End file.
